Sometimes a reorientation.
A different face to the sea,
sometimes you meet a city, neck bared:
they say that nothing has happened here.
There are bush rats that die in the air vents.
They say I visit
all the way from
and I watch girls make fish braids,
sitting in each other’s laps, that press
The skies are operatic.
I walk for hours past striated windows, willows,
along overpasses, loosened and alone.
I try on lace skirts,
watch miners roll their maps
into screw-capped pipes. I’m portable.
I buy ginger cubes dipped in dark chocolate,
for their burn.
For the way that we were happy here,
for the way I’d let this city bite